


Dance with me

by darkstark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: '60s, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Cold War, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkstark/pseuds/darkstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cooped up in a hotel room in Oldtown, waiting for her partner's contact to show up, Sansa tries to find ways to kill time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance with me

**Author's Note:**

> What do you do when you get writer's block with your Stansa fics? You just write more Stansa!  
> This one is inspired by a scene in the film "The man from U.N.C.L.E". I obviously own nothing, neither the film nor Martin's toys!  
> I hope you like it. :)

Sansa steps out in the balcony, shivering under the thin fabric of her pyjamas. Evenings in Oldtown can be chilly even in the summer months. She leans on the railing, taking in the view. The sky is orange, pink, and purple all at once, as if a very cheerful artist has drawn some very thick brushstrokes over the blue. From the balcony on the fourth floor of their hotel she can see the terracotta tile roofs of the houses and their ornate chimneys. The houses are built so close to each other that she can hardly see the narrow streets between them. She closes her eyes for a moment, listening to the distant squawks of the seagulls down in the harbor and inhales the decadent fragrance of the city – stagnant water from the canals, sweat, smoke, fresh bread and flowers. She wants to go down there, walk in the streets at her leisure and explore the city until morning comes, but she can’t. She’s been to Oldtown before, but only on missions. Spies never have time for tourism. She stays out until the orange and pink turn into deep purple, then blue, and the first stars come out. Her hands are cold and she fumbles with the handle of the balcony door. She needs a drink.

Inside, Stannis is hunched over the coffee-table in the living room, cleaning his Walther P38, his usual grim expression settled on his features. He doesn’t look up when she comes in. Sansa goes to the liquor cabinet, trying to decide what to drink. There’s no brandy, so she settles for some whiskey from the Stormlands instead. 

“Care for a drink?” she asks as she walks over to Stannis. The carpet is soft under her bare feet. She feels restless and hopes that the alcohol will numb the feeling a bit.

“I don’t drink” he says sourly, focused on his task.

“It’s a crying shame, having all that good whiskey back in the Stormlands and not giving it a try” Sansa goes on, unperturbed, and slumps on the expensive sofa. The whole room has an air of grandeur with its grasscloth wallpaper from Yi-Ti and its expensive myrish carpets. She has to admit, Robert Baratheon’s organization doesn’t shy away from expenses.

“Like I said, I don’t drink. And neither should you; it’s unprofessional and it compromises the mission” Stannis says dryly, and finally acknowledges her presence with a scowl. Honestly, she finds his scowls adorable.

“ _Unprofessional_? _Compromise the mission_?” Sansa says with a hollow laugh. “This whole mission is nothing more than a glorified first date between your agency and Qyburn. I hardly think I can compromise it in any way, especially since I’m not even allowed to leave this damned room on my own”

“The “date” has been extremely difficult and dangerous to set up, as you very well know. Even extracting Qyburn from the Riverlands has been an extremely delicate operation. And your presence is crucial, else you wouldn’t be here at all” Stannis says curtly.

“Please” Sansa scoffs. “I’m only here because my idiotic brother is doing a favour to your brother, hoping he’ll get Tywin Lannister off our backs for a while. A clue: He won’t. Tywin is too despotic for that, and way too smart”

Stannis remains silent, still hunched over the coffee table. He’s resting his chin on his knitted fingers, looking at his disassembled gun in deep thought. He’s still wearing his dark blue suit, but he has taken off his jacket and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Sansa finds it rather sexy, and almost wants to laugh, because she knows Stannis is entirely unaware of his good looks.

“You know this is wrong, right? Retrieving Qyburn, setting up this meeting. He’s bad news, and you know it; you’ve read his file” she says after a while, when she’s at her third glass of whiskey.

“It’s not our job to decide what’s wrong and what’s right. Tywin Lannister decided he needs Qyburn, so Robert sent me to get him. I do my duty to my country”

“Tywin Lannister shouldn’t have been the one calling the shots” Sansa says coldly.

“Tywin won the war. Of course he’s calling the shots”

“It was a truce” Sansa corrects him.

“Your brother was defeated. The North is lucky Tywin let you be” Stannis says in an even voice as he starts putting his gun back together.

Sansa rolls her eyes, downs her whiskey and gets off the sofa. This conversation is not getting anywhere.

She goes over to the side table where the radio sits, and turns it on. The whiskey has made her warm but has not taken off the edge much. She changes the stations until she finds one she likes and turns the volume up. The music is beautiful – melodic, sad and playful at the same time. Sansa starts swaying to the music, her eyes closed. She’s not the best dancer, but she doesn’t care if she looks goofy. When she dances with her eyes closed she gets a little woozy and it’s an oddly pleasant feeling – like she’s floating, and she can convince herself her movements become more graceful. 

“Will you keep it down? It’s late, you’re gonna get the management come over and make complaints” Stannis says sternly, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“As if the management can hear what’s going on four storeys up” Sansa says, eyes still closed. She really doesn’t care about his sense of propriety sometimes.

“They will when the other guests start calling at the reception desk, asking what’s all this noise” Stannis insists, setting his reassembled Walther on the table with a clunk. 

“Stop being so paranoid!” she says with a laugh. Dancing always makes her happy.

“Turn it off or I will” he warns her.

She shakes her head, ignoring his demands, still swaying to the music.

Stannis gets off from his armchair, getting over to where Sansa is with a few long strides. He tries to reach the radio, but she’s blocking his way, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, following the rhythm of the music.

“Turn it off”

He looks angry, always so angry. She can see it burn behind his dark eyes, behind the austere looks and rigid professionalism. He is perhaps the most lethal spy in all of Westeros, but she is not afraid of him. She is lethal herself.

“Dance with me” she says.

“What? Be serious” he says, his usual scowl becoming even more intense.

“Come _on_ ” she says with a laugh and gently takes his hands in hers.

“I don’t dance” he says seriously, but he’s a pretty funny sight, back ramrod straight, his whole body purposefully immobile while his arms, under Sansa’s control, sway in the music.

“You don’t know how to? Or you don’t want to?” she asks gently, her voice barely audible over the music. She’s come nearer, now holding him by the elbows. A little longer and she’ll get the rest of him to move as well. She looks him in the eyes. She is tall, but he’s even taller and she has to tilt her head up a little. She knows her expression is soft, inviting. His softens too, amusement settling on his features momentarily.

“I don’t know how to. And I don’t want to” he says then flatly, his expression stern once again.

She drops his arms. The song has changed into something livelier, but she’s not dancing anymore.

“ _Fine_. If you don’t want to dance with me, then you’ll have to fight with me”

 

Stannis barely has any time to register what Sansa has said before she lunges at him, grabbing him by the waist and throwing him with his back on the floor. His breath is knocked out of him as his back slams on the myrish carpet, but his instinct and training kick in immediately and he shoves Sansa off of him with a strong push. They both get back on their feet quickly, and almost immediately Sansa lunges at him again with a very unladylike grunt. He’s been expecting it though, and he is able to turn her momentum to his advantage easily as he sends her tumbling over the sofa. Next time she lunges at him though she manages to lock her arms with his, and they end up wrestling around the room, knocking pictures off when they slam on a wall or breaking flower vases when either of them trips on a side table.

In a matter of minutes the lavish room looks like a battlefield, with minefields of broken glass and upturned furniture – and they keep fighting. With the exception of the first few moments, Stannis is certain that Sansa has not turned on him – this whole mission is not some ruse so that her agency can take out the South’s most prolific spy. He knows because his Walther P38 has been at her arm’s reach more than once, yet she didn’t even try to take it. She is just being childish, he realises as they roll on the floor, trying to avoid the glasses and crushed flowers while still somehow maintaining the upper hand. She’s just tired of being cooped up in this room, waiting for his contact to show up, and she’s being unprofessional about it. He’s always thought her to be rather good at her job, even though her successes count as his country’s losses. Yet she is being sloppy now, causing trouble when there’s absolutely no need. She fights dirty too, he thinks with a grimace – bites and kicks are not beneath her.

It ends on the floor, much like it started. She is on top of him, but he is holding her wrists tight, like a warning. She hasn’t won and he hasn’t either – they’ll call it a truce because they’re both out of breath. She’s breathing heavily, and he can smell the alcohol in her breath. Her tense body sags, slumping over him with her head buried in his shoulder, and his hands let go of her wrists, but instead of dropping on the floor they slide over her arms to her waist. Perhaps it’s instinct, the precaution of someone who is trained to always expect foul play; perhaps it’s something else entirely. He can feel her breasts pressing on his chest and the wild beating of her heart, matching his own.

She lifts her head from his shoulder and he can’t help but think she’s a lovely sight with her copper hair tousled like that and her bright blue eyes a little hazy from the alcohol and the exertion. But there’s something else there too, perhaps the same restlessness that the fight has roused in him. And then, without a warning, her warm lips are pressing on his.

He only has a second to assess the situation before he has to make a decision and act on it. 

Fact one: Sansa Stark is kissing him. Fact two: Despite their cooperation on this mission, they serve opposing interests. Fact three: He never has sex while on a mission (and he’s nearly always on one). Conclusion: Getting involved with Sansa Stark would be highly unprofessional and could potentially compromise the mission.

But even as he’s made his decision in his mind, his lips respond to her kiss and his hands press her body closer to his. He’s panicking, trying to regain control of his body and end this madness, but then she moans against his mouth, and the vibration of her desire on his lips wipes all sane thoughts from his head. The only thing he knows is that he’s really, really hard and he really, really wants her.

He parts her lips with his tongue, exploring her mouth, and he knows he’s not as gentle as he should be, but he’s thirsty, thirsty for her own taste under the smoky taste of the alcohol on her playful tongue. She’s writhing in his arms, humming with satisfaction and grinding against him, driving him crazy. His grip on her waist tightens, and he’s not sure if it is to keep her going or stop her. He wants her, he needs her, and he’s almost overwhelmed by the fact that he can have her.

Her kisses are sweet and harsh, and she cups his face in her hands, keeping it steady when she bites his lip a little harder than she should – she doesn’t want him to escape. She takes off her top then with a smug smile, and his breath hitches when he sees she’s not wearing a bra. He reaches for her unblemished, milky-white breasts, cupping them in his hands. They fit perfectly, and his cock twitches violently at the realization. She hums with approval when he starts rubbing circles on her rosy nipples, and he just can’t take it anymore. He flips her on her back, stripping her of her bottoms, and then fumbles with his belt before she unbuckles it for him with a sly smile. Her arm snakes around his neck, drawing him down for another harsh kiss and he groans as he presses his erection against the cotton triangle of her underwear. He starts tugging the fabric down blindly with one hand, and the way she writhes against him trying to help him almost makes him lose his senses. 

She lets out the loveliest sound he has ever heard when he lets his cock slide between her slick folds – a deep moan which reaches his core. It’s almost impossible to contain himself when she’s sopping wet like that and her nails are raking his now exposed chest, but he finds he rather likes the idea of letting her experience the sweet torture he’s experiencing now. He keeps the teasing going as much as he can, until her moans start to sound really needy, and her nails dig in his waist, forcing him down. He then succumbs, and enters her with one deep thrust, and now her moans are those of relief and pleasure. He has to try really hard not to come immediately – she is so hot and tight that it makes him dizzy, but the feeling is so nice that he wants to prolong it as much as he can. His first thrusts are shallow, content in the feeling of being enveloped by her, but soon he feels that dark need for _more_ , and his thrusts become deeper and harder. He can’t help the moans that escape his lips now, joining hers, louder and louder, and even if he remembered the hotel management, he wouldn’t give a damn about the noise. He’s lost in the feeling of her, her smell, her silky skin, her soft breasts crushed under his chest, her fingers running through his hair, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the heels of her feet digging in his buttocks like the spurs on the sides of a horse, urging him to go deeper, harder, faster. 

He comes hard, the world fading out for a moment as he goes over the edge, lost in an explosion of sensations, and soon after she comes too. He swallows the cries of her orgasm with a long kiss and collapses to her side. They stay there for long minutes, sweaty and breathless. It is some time before he realizes that there’s still music coming from the radio – he has been deaf to everything but the sounds of their lovemaking.

“You _must_ know this is wrong” he hears her say much later, and he instinctively knows she refers to their mission and not what they’ve done. He does know this is wrong, but he remains silent, and somehow this says it all.

 

Sansa feels exhausted, yet her eyes remain wide open and her mind alert in the small hours of the morning. She is lying on her back on her bed, with Stannis curled by her side. His left arm is wrapped (protectively? possessively?) around her shoulders, and his steady breathing tickles her neck. She can’t help the weak smile forming on her still swollen lips. She remembers Cersei, in that cold interrogation room they put her in after their side captured her, after she had gone rogue. She remembers her saying that it would be easier to seduce a horse than Stannis Baratheon. She would love to tell Cersei now that Stannis gave her three mind-blowing orgasms. But Cersei is long dead.

The smile slips from her face. In seven hours she needs to report back to her service. She needs to tell them whether she’s been successful with bringing Stannis to their side. The short answer is no. The long answer is maybe, if she had more time. But they won’t be very interested in the long answer.

She rubs her eyes with her free hand and breathes deeply. Stannis’ arm is heavy on her chest. She’s tired of it all, their pointless games over crumbs of power that don’t make a difference for either side. She looks over at Stannis, at how calm he looks in sleep, his handsome features finally free from his scowl. She was rather shocked when she realised that she would be trying to seduce him even if the mission had not required it. She looks at the alarm clock at her nightstand, then back at the sleeping Stannis. He twitches in his sleep, bringing his warm body closer to hers.

Less than seven hours. Plenty of time to figure out an escape plan for both of them, she thinks.


End file.
